


a joy forever

by myconstant



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-16 19:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9285878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myconstant/pseuds/myconstant
Summary: Sergio is a rake.  Iker is a diplomat.  The boundaries of propriety are vigorously assaulted.(regency spies au)





	

**Author's Note:**

> super old, very unfinished, and highly suspect.

 

It is half past midnight that Iker first makes the acquaintance of Mr. Sergio Ramos.

He has only been in London a few days, but judging from the headache pooling behind his eyes and the suspicious looks that have followed him through town, it feels more like an age. This stay in London should not be any more difficult than Constantinople or Munich, but somehow it is. Iker imagines that if it were up to him, he would immediately make for port and book passage to a warmer climate, but after many years in his line of work, he understands that there is precious little that he has the power to decide.

So Iker stands at the edge of this stifling ballroom, uncomfortable in his taffeta jacket and aching for a book, when a loud happy greeting is bestowed upon him in Spanish. He succeeds in keeping his face blank, but Dani’s eyes go wide and Iker’s very English liaison, right in the middle of explaining the precise intricacies of a traditional country dance, makes a curious “ah-ha” sound.

“I did not suspect that you would show up,” says Sir David Beckham in passable Spanish.

“And forgo an assembly such as this?” the stranger replies back and Iker immediately abandons any thought of leaving early. The accent is undeniably from the south, Granada or Sevilla, but the clothes are clearly English. The wide smirk is something else entirely.

With an amused expression from Sir David, the necessary introduction is made. The man’s name is Ramos. “Rake, scoundrel, agent of all manner of wicked things.”

Sergio bows solemnly with a very unsolemn smile. “At your service, Mr. Casillas.” Iker thinks he catches a wink. “For _whatever_ service that you may require.”

The suggestion is so apparent yet concealed, a filthy thought wrapped up in the politest of manners, that young Dani chokes on his wine, Sir David laughs again into his cup, pleased with the course of the evening; and Iker Casillas, the distinguished diplomat who has met with kings, queens, and two popes, who has suffered and witnessed more ailments than he would ever care to remember, who has played this game across Europe for fifteen years, is not quite certain what to say.

He settles on staring. The ballroom around them hums.

 

 

His London apartments are off Grosvenor Square and it is there that Iker returns to an old book on the collecting of forest fungi. It is close to dawn by now, but despite his physical exhaustion, his mind is restless and it is from experience that he knows that only the gentle wander of words across the page will lull him to sleep.

He is just about there when there is a sharp knock on the door.

A Mr. Ramos on Urgent Business is announced. Iker tells Álvaro to inform their visitor that all civilized business will have to wait until morning. Sergio walks in anyway, shutting the door quite abruptly on Iker’s secretary.

“None of my business is civilized,” he says with a grin. This time Iker definitely catches the wink. “Join me for a country drive?”

“At this hour?” Iker bristles, slamming his book shut with perhaps more force than required.“Unlikely.”

Sergio pokes at the clock on the fireplace mantle. “I know that your schedule for tomorrow does not begin until ten o’clock in the morning. That gives us plenty of time.”

Iker rises from his armchair, any desire for rest forgotten. “From where did you hear this?”

Sergio shrugs with a smile and picks up a small ornament for examination. “Some corner of the ballroom that I cannot recall.”

In the dim light of the waning fire, Iker is offered a view of his intruder’s profile. His nose has been broken at least twice. Despite the circumstances, something about this is strangely charming.

Iker frowns, driving the thought out. “You will leave now.”

“Join me for a drive,” Sergio counters in measure. Iker realizes that he knows this sort well. Reckless, persuasive, unrelenting in their pursuit of whatever it is they want. "If you don't care to see the country, I'll show you the town."

And occasionally useful, Iker thinks.

 

 

As quite expected, Sergio certainly does not show him the town. Iker keeps silent until they drive up to a small lonely park in Chelsea where a small circle of gentlemen are already present. It quite defies what he thought possible.

“You damned fool,” he curses.

Sergio grins, a pistol suddenly in hand. “Judging by your staunch silence on the journey here, I did not think you would be worried for my safety.”

“I absolutely do not care about your safety,” Iker hisses. “Put that away.”

“Yes, you can,” Sergio says cheerfully. “and no, I will not.”

“I should have you arrested for dueling.”

“You should. Whether you will is another matter entirely.”

Sergio tucks the pistol into his jacket pocket and hops out of the chaise. He smiles expectantly at Iker.

Iker has none of it. “Why did you bring me here?” he demands, unmoving.

Sergio shrugs. “If I have to to die in a muddy field on a rainy island, I’d like some company. Besides,” he adds with a cheeky smile. “As my countryman, I daresay you are obliged. Will you help me with the horses?”

“It is said that you are a man without country.” Iker does not say this so much as grinds it through his teeth.

“Is it?” A seemingly contemplative pause and then, “Your reports seem to be wrong then. Will not be the last time, I’d say.”

Iker moves to take the reins in his own hands, to wheel the pair around, to bolt back to his book and his bed when he hears,

“Come. Please.”

It is the base note of vulnerability in the second word that catches Iker’s attention. It stirs something unfamiliar and impulsive and before Iker really knows what he’s doing, he is standing on the English countryside. It surprises him, how awake he feels.

“I might require a lot of you after this," Iker grumbles. "You will owe me."

Sergio looks at him carefully. Maybe it is only for a second, maybe for a little more.

"Like I said," Sergio says, handing the reins to Iker but then not letting go. His hands are surprisingly warm despite the cold of the hour. "Anything that you require."

In what is probably his best show of judgement this evening, Iker does not allow himself to pursue the thought further.

 

 

Far, far, _far_ too early the following morning, a guest waits for Iker at his breakfast table.

“I'm tired of rainy countries,” he grumbles at the certain gentleman from Madeira sitting there, tucked away behind a newspaper.

There’s a laugh. “I hear you had to put your old medical talents to use last night.”

Iker yawns and takes a seat at the other end of the long table. The bruise along the knuckles of his right hand from an ill-timed punch is dark and garish in the morning light. “And I hear you are supposed to be in St. Petersburg.”

His guest does not look up from his newspaper, but rather turns a neatly ironed page. “I am delighted to find that Spanish intelligence is as misguided as ever. Did the bullet really clear the shoulder?”

Iker huffs, already exasperated and finished with the day. It it not even a quarter to nine.

“It barely grazed the arm,” he says. The lie comes without any thought.

“How fortunate. Terry’s a good shot. My next question, and perhaps the more important one, is how Ramos managed to pull you out of the house at three o’clock in the morning. God knows that Fàbregas has been failing for years.”

“He’s a fool.”

“Ramos or Fàbregas?”

“Both.”

This issues a laugh, deep and rich, and Cristiano sets down his paper. Much to Iker’s disappointment, he looks the same as ever: clothes impeccable, eyebrows perfectly arched, and expression completely amused. “You remain the only person I know to use the word ‘fool’ as an endearment.”

Iker scowls.

“It’s good to see you again,” Cristiano adds.

“Likewise, although I do wish you would stop this habit of breaking into my house,” he mutters into his tea while wishing it were coffee. He reaches for his guest’s copy of the Times and they finish breakfast in a comfortable silence, or as comfortable a silence as two spies from opposing sides can manage. They have done all this before. It's actually almost quite comfortable.

“I’d really love to hear more about Mr. Ramos,” Cristiano says after a time. “I hear he is wicked.”

“That does seem to be the word people are using.”

“And you do not agree?”

“Foolish more than wicked.”

“Again with the affectionate talk,” comes the fascinated reply. “You must really like him. Now, why did he duel Mr. Terry?”

“I neither know nor care to find out,” Iker says. This is not a lie, but it still requires thought. Iker makes a conscious decision to not dwell on why.

Cristiano shrugs at this with all the appearance of nonchalance, yet his eyes are narrowed and questioning. Iker stares back and thus begins the time-honored tradition of shooing an uninvited person away from his home. When he is nearly at last successful, Cristiano halts by the front door.

“I’m good at this job for the same reason you are,” he says. “I can tell when there are notes missing from the score.”

Iker mostly ignores this, except for the part of his mind that stores it away for future keeping. “Please send my best to the senhor,” he says, ignoring the phantom twinge of the old wound, now reduced to only a pale scar down his neck and some memories of Porto that are best not to recall.

The gentleman from Madeira offers a curt bow and blends into the street. Iker goes upstairs and sits to write a letter.

 

 

 _My Distinguished Sir,_ – he begins, but then promptly discards the page to start again.

 _My Esteemed Sir,_ – no, definitely not.

 _Sir,_ he decides.

_I do hope this finds you well and that you are no longer bleeding too heavily._

It is a start. Five minutes later he hands Jesé a letter for immediate delivery at an address across town that Dani had turned up.

Iker sits back in his chair. “It seems that I have been of much more service to him than he has to me.” He says this aloud to his empty library with no little degree of satisfaction.

The business feels finished. He hopes to revert back to operating in his preferred way - quietly.

Then again, as he knows after so many years, there is little that he has to power to decide.

 

 

That very evening, there is another ball. This time, Iker is not invited.

But still he attends, slipping through the front door of the assembly, taking care to avoid eye contact with the crowds in the entranceway. Sidesteps passed the crush in the ballroom, follows the map in his mind memorized off a letter that has long been burnt. Through dark hallways and passages, galleries and kitchens, until he nears a door at the end of the corridor. Reaches into his pocket and closes his fingers around a heavy silver key.

The locked door, however, is already wide open.

Iker inches toward the door, pistol now in hand, and cranes his head to see a mirror inside the room that offers view of most of the parlor. There are two men of similar height and weight standing by the far window. The one speaking has his back turned, but Iker can fully see the other. English clothes, teasing smile, arm in a white cotton sling that Iker himself had just tied the night before in a wet English meadow. It should have been changed by now.

There are notes missing from this score.

Something magnetic that Iker cannot explain pulls Sergio’s eyes to meet his in the mirror. There is a pause and Iker expects a laugh, a joke, maybe an invitation to join. Instead, Sergio’s face reads seriousness, determination, and again that something else, something unfamiliar and impulsive.

It takes a second, but Iker begins to understand. Sergio looks away and reaches out to the other man, his fingers tangling in long blond hair and both of their eyes fluttering closed. Iker steps into the room, quiet and unnoticed.

 

 

Punctual as ever, the Spanish Ambassador is already waiting at the specified location with the carriage. Iker does not slip on the sheet of black ice outside the carriage, but he still feels unbalanced, off-kilter. He slams the door behind him shut. The carriage immediately jerks to a start.

“How was our evening?” Raúl asks. 

“Well enough,” Iker says, breathing heavily as he sinks into his seat, revealing an unopened letter in his hand addressed to a Mr. Gerrard of Anfield. He hands it to Raúl. Iker blinks and it’s already gone, tucked away into a jacket pocket.

Iker pulls his cravat loose and lets it wrinkle in his lap. “We might be receiving help.”

Raúl raises a brow at this, but does not push further. He has always waited for Iker to formulate and hypothesize on his own before pressing for a point. Iker has always been thankful this.

“The assignment here is almost over,” Raúl says when the carriage arrives at Iker’s address. “I am not sure where I will see you next.”

Iker nods as he gets up to leave. “Somewhere warmer in the future.” He means it as a joke, but it comes out as a plea.

“Sevilla, maybe,” Raúl says thoughtfully.

Iker takes this and tucks it in the back of his mind.

 

 

The next morning, Iker wakes from his sleep but does not rise. There is still some time before dawn.

From the garden below his opened window, there’s the sound of a guitar and a voice singing of a place he knows.

Iker closes his eyes and, for the first time in many years, drifts back to Spain.

 

 


End file.
